


dark night, quiet night

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fantasizing, Fantasy, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing a Bed, it COULD STILL HAPPEN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Even in the dimness, tired lines were visible around his mouth and eyes. She’d teased him about that, about being an old man, the way grey hair coiled among his gold.He had only laughed.You can thank my family for that,he’d said.This is my father reading lectures about legacy and duty,—pointing —this is Cersei — this is Tyrion ...She tried not to smile.It’s so like you to blame another for normal aging.He said:You seem to prefer me like this.No,she’d told him, indignant.Don’t be ridiculous. I don't prefer you at all.But her face was red. And Jaime only laughed again.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 10
Kudos: 169





	dark night, quiet night

**Author's Note:**

> written 25 October 2019.

Jaime Lannister had not washed in at least a month, and it had done nothing for his mood. He was increasingly dirty, tired, bitter. He smelled of horse and leather and the old sweat of a hundred hundred sparrings.

And he was next to her in the dark tent, sharing a bedroll and a blanket.

_There aren’t enough of either to go around_ (he had explained, patient with her embarrassed anger). _The men often sleep so._

_I’m not a man. Pod can —_

_Podrick_ is _a man,_ Jaime said. _Though I know you haven’t noticed._

_What do you mean?_

_He’s found his own bedpartner tonight._ He smiled at her expression. _Come on, wench. If I wanted to molest you, I’ve had better chances_.

All this was true: but the trouble wasn't the bedrolls or the sleeping in the field; hadn't she done that enough? The trouble was _Jaime_. The trouble was: she couldn’t stop wanting him.

One night they’d spent close to each other in the Riverlands, _one goddamn night_ she’d woken up to find his arms around her and his hips close by and his cock bridging the distance. Gods, he was hard against her thigh and his breath was hot in her ear and it had nothing to do with her but she wished it did.

Once. Only once.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about it?

He lay beside her now, body close enough she could feel his breath, could feel the slow exhalation move into her hair and tickle her neck.

Was he asleep? She whispered his name.

Steadily he breathed, long and deep.

“Jaime?”

No response.

Carefully she slipped one hand down her smallclothes; unwillingly she closed her eyes.

Alright.

There.

Yes. _Jaime, there._

He knew already.

Sometimes in these fantasies they fell into bed after sparring and sometimes it was after a fight, she saved his life and his hand and he was so grateful (in a way that he never would be in the real world), he offered her ... anything. Everything. _What would you like, Lady Brienne?_

_You know what I want,_ she said, breath white in the cold air. 

Mostly it happened without conversation, mostly she couldn’t even accept that talk with him in the privacy of her mind, how could she look him in the face after saying Yes I want you please

so he simply knew it, and did it, without any speech at all.

— He overpowered her in the practice yards, better footwork and better form and better, two handed and strong, not given to kindness and mercy in this or anything. He held her arms above her head and kissed her and said —

Something cruel. Something cutting. She was never good at knowing what he’d say.

_Fine_.

So they weren't sparring, they weren't in Kings Landing. It was not in a marriage and not in rage. Maybe (her hand moved slowly, teasing the wetness) maybe it was an inn. Maybe it happened in a tent

this tent on this night

(her finger slipped inside)

yes.

Dark night, quiet night, no moon and no candle. He lay beside her sleeping and he woke and heard her ... heard what?

She whimpered.

So. He woke hard and found her wanting too and nudged his knee between her legs, sliding his hand up. _Let me,_ he said, and _Are you frightened?_ and she —

No.

She was asleep. He came to her and she was asleep, and then ... then what? She couldn’t even imagine it. The act was simple, she'd seen it plenty, but how would it feel?

Hyle kissing her was rough and dull and hasty. Boring as sparring a clumsy partner. He wanted to convince her and he wanted to move on.

In her mind, Jaime took his time. Slow slow slow, he kissed her _slow_ , and when he settled down on top of her she reached to pull him closer, he found her wet 

(“Jaime,” she said aloud: it was nearly a whine)

and her Septa was a liar because when he pushed inside it was sweet. She shifted her legs and angled up her hips and he rubbed between them 

(Oh) 

he bent down to kiss her again, holding her steady, holding her gaze. _Are you alright?_ he said, instead of the sarcastic things -- the things --

(yes)

the sort of things he actually said, the way he needled at her and (gods) and laughed at her and (Jaime, there) and looked at her like he did sometimes, eyes dark and distracted, like Hyle looked at her but _more_ \-- he was daring her to do more, say more, -- daring himself towards it -- 

(more)

She shivered all over; her legs tensed and her back arched and she ground her teeth against the noises that wanted to slip past — no matter that the gasping whimpering moan came out without her permission — like her eyes had closed, yes, like the thought of him had settled over her, heavy and rich and dark, like his smell nearby, like his face when he looked at her, sometimes. Jaime.

She was breathing unevenly, little starts and jolts. 

She felt hot.

Sense was returning now, and humiliation. If he’d woken — if he’d heard —

But he wasn’t awake and he heard nothing, he always slept heavily, didn’t he? How many nights had they shared a space? He never woke til morning light or birds or the sound of Peck clanging pots over a fire, or her own voice saying his name: _Jaime, it’s time_.

She rolled over.

He was facing her; he had heard. And even in the dimness, she saw the awareness in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> jaime is a bitter, sarcastic idiot and i love him with a love that is more than love.


End file.
